UC-N 


PS 
2837 
H5 
1896 


HE  H&R.MITA  GE 
Nff'LA  TEH  POEMS 
•  •  •  BY  EDWARD 
OWLAND  SJLL  •  •  « 


GIFT   OF 
illisabeth  Whitney  Putnar 


«^^^^ 

'   0 


k! ML 


THE    HERMITAGE   AND 
LATER   POEMS 


BY 

EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK"  "  3 
HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   AND  COMPANY 


M  DCCC  XCVII 


THE    LETTER. 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL,  DIED  FEBRUARY 

27,  1887. 

I  held  Ms  letter  in  my  hand, 

And  even  while  I  read 
The  lightning  flashed  across  the  land 

The  word  that  he  was  dead. 

How  strange  it  seemed!    His  living  voice 

Was  speaking  from  the  page 
Those  courteous  phrases,  tersely  choice, 

Light-hearted,  witty,  sage. 

I  wondered  what  it  was  that  died! 

The  man  himself  was  here, 
His  modesty,  his  scholar's  pride, 

His  soul  serene  and  clear. 

These  neither  death  nor  time  shall  dim, 
Still  this  sad  thing  must  be  — 

Henceforth  I  may  not  speak  to  him, 
Though  he  can  speak  to  me! 

THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


CONTENTS 

Page 
The  Hermitage c      7 

Starlight 70 

A  Dead  Bird  in  Winter 73 

Spring  Twilight 76 

Evening 78 

Eastern  Winter 81 

A  Prayer 84 

The  Polar  Sea 86 

The  Future 89 

The  North  Wind 91 

California  Winter 95 

The  Lover's  Song 99 

Tropical  Morning  at  Sea 100 

A  Foolish  Wish       103 

Every-day  Life 106 

Before  Sunrise  in  Winter 107 

Sibylline  Bartering 108 


THE   HERMITAGE.1 
i. 

LIFE,  —  a    common,    cleanly, 

quiet  life, 

Full  of  good  citizenship  and  re 
pute, 

New,  but  with  promise  of  prosperity,  — 

A    well  -  bred,   fair,    young  -  gentlemanly 
life,— 

What  business  had  a  girl  to  bring  her 
eyes, 

And  her  blonde  hair,  and  her  clear,  ring 
ing  voice, 

And  break  up  life,  as   a  bell   breaks  a 
dream  ? 

Had  Love  Christ's  wrath,  and  did  this 
life  sell  doves 

1  California,  Bay  'of  San  Francisco,  1866. 


.# !  1 1 1 !  /A  «• ,  The  Hermitage 

In  the  world's  temple,  that  Love  scourged 
it  forth 

Beyond  the  gates  ?  Within,  the  worship 
ers, — 

Without,  the  waste,  and  the  hill-country, 
where 

The  life,  with  smarting  shoulders  and 
stung  heart, 

Unknowing  that  the  hand  which  scourged 
could  heal, 

Drave  forth,  blind,  cursing,  in  despair  to 
die, 

Or  work  its  own  salvation  out  in  fear. 


Old  World  — old,  foolish,  wicked  World 

—  farewell ! 
Since  the  Time-angel  left  my  soul  with 

thee, 
Thou  hast  been  a  hard  step-mother  unto 

me. 

Now  I  at  last  rebel 
Against  thy  stony  eyes  and  cruel  hands. 


The  Hermitage  9 

I  will  go  seek  in  far-off  lands 

Some  quiet  corner,  where  my  years  shall 

be 

Still  as  the  shadow  of  a  brooding  bird 
That  stirs  but  with  her  heart-beats.     Far, 

unheard 

May  wrangle  on  the  noisy  human  host, 
While   I    will   face   my   Life,  that   silent 

ghost, 
And  force  it  speak  what  it  would   have 

with  me. 

Not  of  the  fair  young  Earth, 
The  snow-crowned,  sunny-belted  globe  ; 
Not   of  its   skies,  nor  Twilight's   purple 

robe, 
Nor   pearly   dawn ;    not   of   the   flowers' 

birth, 
And   Autumn's  forest  -  funerals ;    not   of 

storms, 
And   quiet   seas,    and    clouds'   incessant 

forms ; 
Not  of  the  sanctuary  of  the  night, 


io  The  Hermitage 

With  its  solemnities,  nor  any  sight 

And  pleasant   sound  of   all  the  friendly 

day : 

But  I  am  tired  of  what  we  call  our  lives ; 
Tired   of   the   endless    humming   in   the 

hives,  — 

Sick  of  the  bitter  honey  that  we  eat, 
And    sick    of    cursing    all    the    shallow 

cheat. 

Let  me  arise,  and  away 
To  the  land  that  guards  the  dying  day, 
Whose  burning  tear,  the  evening-star, 
Drops  silently  to  the  wave  afar ; 
The  land  where  summers  never  cease 
Their  sunny  psalm  of  light  and  peace. 
Whose   moonlight,  poured   for  years  un 
told, 

Has  drifted  down  in  dust  of  gold ; 
Whose  morning  splendors,  fallen  in  show 
ers, 
Leave  ceaseless  sunrise  in  the  flowers. 


The  Hermitage  n 

There  I  will  choose  some  eyrie  in  the 

hills, 

Where  I  may  build,  like  a  lonely  bird, 
And  catch  the  whispered  music  heard 
Out  of  the  noise  of  human  ills. 


So,  I  am  here  at  last ; 
A  purer  world,  whose  feet  the   old,  salt 

Past 
Washes  against,  and  leaves  it  fresh  and 

free 
As  a  new  island  risen  from  the  sea. 

Three  dreamy  weeks  we  lay  on  Ocean's 

breast, 

Rocked  asleep,  by  gentle  winds  caressed, 
Or   crooned  with  wild   wave-lullabies   to 

rest. 

A  memory  of  foam  and  glassy  spray ; 
Wave  chasing  wave,  like  young  sea-beasts 

at  play; 
Stretches  of  misty  silver  'neath  the  moon, 


f2  The  Hermitage 

And  night-airs  murmuring  many  a  quiet 
tune. 

Three  long,  delicious  weeks'  monotony 

Of  sky,  and  stars,  and  sea, 

Broken  midway  by  one  day's  tropic 
scene 

Of  giant  plants,  tangles  of  luminous 
green, 

With  fiery  flowers  and  purple  fruits  be 
tween. 

I  have   found   a   spot  for   my  hermit 
age, — 
No  dank  and  sunless  cave,  — 

I  come  not  for  a  dungeon,  nor  a  cage, 

Not  to  be  Nature's  slave, 

But,  as  a  weary  child, 

Unto  the  mother's  faithful  arms  I  flee, 

And  seek  the  sunniest  footstool  at  her 

knee, 

Where  I  may  sit  beneath  caresses  mild, 
And  hear  the  sweet  old  songs  that  she 
will  sing  to  me. 


The  Hermitage  t$ 

'T  is  a  grassy  mountain-nook, 

In  a  gorge,  whose  foaming  brook 

Tumbles  through  from  the  heights  above, 

Merrily  leaping  to  the  light 

From  the  pine-wood's  haunted  gloom,  — 

As  a  romping  child, 

Affrighted,  from  a  sombre  room 

Leaps  to  the  sunshine,  laughing  with  de 
light  : 

Be  this  my  home,  by  man's  tread  unde- 
filed. 

Here  sounds  no  voice  but  of  the  mourn 
ing  dove, 

Nor  harsher  footsteps  on  the  sands  ap 
pear 

Than  the  sharp,  slender  hoof-marks  of 
the  deer, 

Or  where  the  quail  has  left  a  zigzag  row 

Of  lightly  printed  stars  her  track  to  show. 

Above  me  frowns  a  front  of  rocky  wall, 
Deep  cloven  into  ruined  pillars  tall 
And  sculptures  strange ;  bald  to  its  dizzy 
edge, 


14  The  Hermitage 

Save  where,  in  some  deep  crevice  of  a 

ledge 
Buttressed    by   its    black    shadow  hung 

below, 

A  solitary  pine  has  cleft  the  rock,  — 
Straight  as  an  arrow,  feathered  to  the  tip, 
As  if  a  shaft  from  the  moon-huntress'  bow 
Had  struck  and  grazed  the  cliff's  defiant 

lip, 
And  stood,  still  stiffly  quivering  with  the 

shock. 

Beyond  the  gorge  a  slope  runs  half-way 

up, 

With  hollow  curve  as  for  a  giant's  cup, 
Brimming  with  blue  pine-shadows  :   then 

in  air 

The  gray  rock  rises  bare, 
Its    front    deep-fluted    by   the    sculptor- 
storms 

In  moulded  columns,  rounded  forms, 
As   if    great    organ-pipes   were    chiseled 
there, 


The  Hermitage  15 

Whose    anthems    are   the   torrent's   roar 

below, 
And    chanting  winds   that    through   the 

pine-tops  go. 
Here  bursts  of  requiem  music  sink  and 

rise, 
When  the  full  moonlight,  slowly  streaming, 

lies 
Like  panes   of  gold   on   some  cathedral 

pave, 
While  floating  mists  their  silver  incense 

wave, 

And  from  on  high,  through  fleecy  win 
dow-bars, 
Gaze  down  the  saintly  faces  of  the  stars. 

Against  the  huge  trunk  of  a  storm- 
snapped  tree, 

(Whose  hollow,  ready-hewn  by  long  de 
cay, 

Above,  a  chimney,  lined  with  slate  and 
clay, 

Below,  a  broad  arched  fireplace  makes 
for  me,) 


1 6  The  Hermitage 

I  Ve  built  of  saplings  and  long  limbs  a 

hut. 
The   roof  with  lacing  boughs   is   tightly 

shut, 
Thatched  with  thick-spreading  palms  of 

pine, 

And  tangled  over  by  a  wandering  vine, 
Uprooted  from  the  woods  close  by, 
Whose  clasping  tendrils  climb  and  twine, 
Waving  their  little  hands  on  high, 
As  if  they  loved  to  deck  this  nest  of  mine. 
Within,  by  smooth  white  stones  from  the 

brook's  beach 

My  rooms  are  separated,  each  from  each. 
On  yonder  island-rock  my  table  's  spread, 
Brook-ringed,  that  no  stray,  fasting  ant 

may  come 
To  make   himself   with  my  wild  fare  at 

home. 

Here  will  I  live,  and  here  my  life  shall 

be 
Serene,  still,  rooted  steadfastly, 


The  Hermitage  77 

Yet  pointing   skyward,   and   its   motions 

keep 

A  rhythmic  balance,  as  that  cedar  tall, 
Whose  straight  shaft  rises  from  the  chasm 

there, 

Through  the  blue,  hollow  air, 
And,  measuring  the  dizzy  deep, 
Leans  its  long  shadow  on  the  rock's  gray 

wall. 


Through  the  sharp  gap  of  the  gorge 

below, 

From  my  mountains'  feet  the  gaze  may  go 
Over  a  stretch  of  fields,  broad-sunned, 
Then  glance  beyond, 
Across  the  beautiful  bay, 
To  that  dim  ridge,  a  score  of  miles  away, 
Lifting  its  clear-cut  outline  high, 
Azure  with  distance  on  the  azure  sky, 
Whose  flocks  of  white  clouds  brooding  on 

its  crests 
Have  winged   from  ocean   to   their  piny 

nests. 


1 8  The  Hermitage 

Beyond  the  bright  blue  water's  further 
rim, 

Where  waves  seem  ripples  on  its  far-off 
brim, 

The  rich  young  city  lies, 

Diminished  to  an  ant-hill's  size. 

I  trace  its  steep  streets,  ribbing  all  the  hill 

Like  narrow  bands  of  steel, 

Binding  the  city  on  the  shifting  sand  : 

Thick-pressed  between  them  stand 

Broad  piles  of  buildings,  pricked  through 
here  and  there 

By  a  sharp  steeple  ;  and  above,  the  air 

Murky  with  smoke  and  dust,  that  seem  to 
show 

The  bright  sky  saddened  by  the  sin  be 
low. 


The  voice  of  my  wild  brook  is  marvel 
ous  ; 

Leaning  above  it  from  a  jutting  rock 
To  watch  the  image  of  my  face,  that  forms 


The  Hermitage  19 

And    breaks,   and  forms   again    (as   the 

image  of  God 

Is  broken  and  re-gathered  in  a  soul), 
I  listen  to  the  chords  that  sink  and  swell 
From  many  a  little  fall  and  babbling  run. 
That  hollow  gurgle  is  the  deepest  bass ; 
Over  the  pebbles  gush  contralto  tones, 
While  shriller  trebles  tinkle  merrily, 
Running,  like   some   enchanted  -  fingered 

flute, 
Endless  chromatics. 

Now  it  is  the  hum 
And  roar  of  distant  streets;  the  rush  of 

winds 
Through  far-off  forests  :  now  the  noise  of 

rain 

Drumming  the  roof ;   the  hiss   of  ocean- 
foam  : 

Now  the  swift  ripple  of  piano-keys 
In   mad   mazurkas,  danced   by  laughing 
girls. 

So,  night  and  day,  the  hurrying  brook 
goes  on ; 


2O  The  Hermitage 

Sometimes   in  noisy  glee,  sometimes  far 

down, 

Silent  along  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
Like  a  deep  passion  hidden  in  the  soul, 
That  chafes  in  secret  hunger  for  its  sea : 
Yet  not  so  still  but  that  heaven  finds  its 

course  ; 
And   not  so   hid   but  that  the   yearning 

night 
Broods  over  it,  and  feeds  it  with  her  stars. 


When  earth  has  Eden  spots  like  this  for 

man, 
Why  will  he  drag  his  life  where  lashing 

storms 
Whip  him  indoors,  the  petulant  weather's 

slave  ? 

There  he  is  but  a  helpless,  naked  snail, 
Except   he  wear  his  house  close    at   his 

back. 
Here  the  wide  air  builds  him  his  palace 

walls,  — 


The  Hermitage  21 

Some  little  corner  of  it  roofed,  for  sleep ; 
Or  he  can  lie  all  night,  bare  to  the  sky, 
And  feel  updrawn  against  the   breast  of 

heaven, 
Letting  his  thoughts  stretch  out  among 

the  stars, 

As  the  antennae  of  an  insect  grope 
Blindly  for  food,  or  as  the  ivy's  shoots 
Clamber  from  cope  and  tower  to  find  the 

light, 
And  drink  the  electric  pulses  of  the  sun. 

As  from  that  sun  we  draw  the  coarser 

fire 
That  swells  the  veins,  and  builds  the  brain 

and  bone, 

So  from  each  star  a  finer  influence  streams, 
Kindling  within  the  mortal  chrysalis 
The  first  faint  thrills  of  its  new  life  to 

come. 

Here  is  no  niggard  gap  of  sky  above, 
With  murk  and  mist  below,  but  all  sides 
clear,  — 


22  The  Hermitage 

Not  an   inch   bated  from  the  full-swung 

dome ; 

Each  constellation  to  the  horizon's  rim 
Keen-glittering,  as  if  one  only  need 
Walk  to  the  edge  there,  spread  his  wings, 

and  float, 
The  dark  earth  spurned  behind,  into  the 

blue. 


I  love  thee,  thou  brown,  homely,  dear 

old  Earth  ! 
Those   fairer   planets   whither  fate   may 

lead, 

Whatever  marvel  be  their  bulk  or  speed, 
Ringed  with  what  splendor,  belted  round 

with  fire, 

In  glory  of  perpetual  moons  arrayed, 
Can  ne'er  give  back  the  glow  and  fresh 

desire 
Of  youth  in  that  old  home  where  man  had 

birth, 
Whose  paths  he  trod  through  wholesome 

light  and  shade. 


The  Hermitage  2} 

Out  of  their  silver  radiance  to  thy  dim 

And  clouded  orb  his  eye  will  turn, 

As  an  old  man  looks  back  to  where  he 

played 
About  his  father's  hearth,  and  finds  for 

him 
No  splendor  like  the  fires  which  there  did 

burn. 

See :  I  am  come  to  live  alone  with  thee. 
Thou  hast  had  many  a  one,  grown  old  and 

worn, 

Come  to  thee  weary  and  forlorn, 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  human  vanity. 
But  I  come  with  my  life  almost  untried, 
In  thy  perpetual  presence  to  abide. 
Teach  me  thy  wisdom ;  let  me  learn  the 

flowers, 

And  know  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  touch  the  springs  of  all  thy  hidden 

powers. 

Let  the  still  gloom  of  thy  rock-fastnesses 
Fall  deep  upon  my  spirit,  till  the  voice 


24  The  Hermitage 

Of  brooks  become  familiar,  and  my  heart 

rejoice 
With  joy  of  birds  and  winds  ;  and  all  the 

hours, 

Unmaddened  by  the  babble  of  vain  men, 
Bring  thy  most  inner  converse  to  my  ken. 
So  shall  it  be,  that,  when  I  stand 
On  that  next  planet's  ruddy-shimmering 

strand, 

I  shall  not  seem  a  pert  and  forward  child 
Seeking  to  dabble  in  abstruser  lore 
With  alphabet  unlearned,  who  in  disgrace 
Returns,  upon  his  primer  yet  to  pore  — 
But  those  examiners,  all  wise  and  mild, 
Shall  gently  lead  me  to  my  place, 
As  one  that  faithfully  did  trace 
These   simpler  earthly  records   o'er   and 

o'er. 


Beckoned  at  sunrise  by  the  surf's  white 

hand, 

I    have   strayed    down   to   sit   upon   the 
beach, 


The  Hermitage  25 

And  hear  the  oratorio  of  the  Sea. 

On  this  steep,  crumbling  bank,  where  the 
high  tides 

Have  crunched  the  earth  away,  a  crooked 
oak  — 

A  hunch -backed  dwarf,  whose  limbs, 
cramped  down  by  gales, 

Have  twisted  stiffening  back  upon  them 
selves  — 

Spreads  me  a  little  arbor  from  the  sun. 

On  the  brown,  shining  beach,  all  ripple- 
carved, 
Gleams  now  and  then  a  pool ;  so  smooth 

and  clear, 
That,   though   I    cannot   see   the    plover 

there 

Pacing  its  farther  edge  (so  much  he  looks 
The  color  of  the  sand),  yet  I  can  trace 
His  image  hanging  in  the  glassy  brine  — 
Slim   legs   and   rapier-beak  —  like  silver- 
plate 

With  such  a  pictured  bird  clean-etched 
upon  it. 


26  The  Hermitage 

Beyond,  long  curves  of  little   shallow 

waves 
Creep,   tremulous    with    ripples,   to    the 

shore, 

Till  the  whole  bay  seems  slowly  sliding  in, 
With  edge  of  snow  that  melts  against  the 

sand. 

Above  its  twinkling  blue,  where  cease 
lessly 

The  white  curve  of  a  slender  arm  of  foam 

Is  reached  along  the  water,  and  with 
drawn, 

A  flock  of  sea-birds  darken  into  specks  ; 

Then  whiten,  as  they  wheel  with  sunlit 
wings, 

Winking  and  wavering  against  the  sky. 

The  earth  for  form,  the  sea  for  coloring, 
And  overhead,  fair  daughters  of  the  two, 
The  clouds,  whose  curves  were  moulded 

on  the  hills, 
Whose  tints  of  pearl  and  foam  the  ocean 

gave. 


The  Hermitage  27 

O  Sea,  thou  art  all-beautiful,  but  dumb  ! 
Thou  hast  no  utterance  articulate 
For  human  ears  ;  only  a  restless  moan 
Of  barren   tides,  that   loathe   the   living 

earth 
As   alien,   striving    towards    the    barren 

moon. 

Thou  art  no  longer  infinite  to  man  : 
Has  he  not  touched  thy  boundary-shores, 

and  now 

Laid  his  electric  fetters  round  thy  feet  ? 
Thy  dumb  moan  saddens  me ;  let  me  go 

back 
And  listen  to  the  silence  of  the  hills. 


At  last  I  live  alone  : 
No  human  judgment-seats  are  here 
Thrust  in  between  man  and  his  Maker's 

throne, 
With   praise   to  covet,  or  with  frown  to 

fear: 
No  small,  distorted  judgments  bless,  or 

blame ; 


28  The  Hermitage 

Only  to  Him  I  own 

The   inward   sense  of  worth,  or  flush  of 
shame. 

God  made  the  man  alone  j 
And  all  that  first  grand  morning  walked 

he  so. 
Then  was  he  strong  and  wise,  till  at  the 

noon, 
When   tired  with   joyous  wonder  he   lay 

prone 

For  rest  and  sleep,  God  let  him  know 
The  subtile   sweetness   that  is  bound  in 

Two. 

Man  rises  best  alone : 
Upward   his    thoughts    stream,   like  the 

leaping  flame, 

Whose  base  is  tempest-blown ; 
Upward  and  skyward,  since  from  thence 

they  came, 

And  thither  they  must  flow. 
But  when  in  twos  we  go, 


The  Hermitage  29 

The  lightnings  of  the  brain  weave  to  and 

fro, 

Level  across  the  abyss  that  parts  us  all ; 
If  upward,  only  slantwise,  as  we  scale 
Slowly  together  that  night-shrouded  wall 
Which  bounds  our  reason,  lest  our  reason 

fail. 

If  linked  in  threes,  and  fives, 
However  heavenward  the  spirit  strives, 
The   lowest    stature   draws    the    highest 

down,  — 
The  king   must  keep   the   level   of    the 

clown. 

The  grosser  matter  has  the  greater  power 
In  all  attraction  ;  every  hour 
We  slide  and  slip  to  lower  scales, 
Till  weary  aspiration  fails, 
And   that   keen   fire   which   might    have 

pierced  the  skies, 
Is  quenched  and  killed  in  one  another's 

eyes. 


jo  The  Hermitage 

A  child  had  blown  a  bubble  fair 
That  floated  in  the  sunny  air  : 
A  hundred  rainbows  danced  and  swung 
Upon  its  surface,  as  it  hung 
In  films  of  changing  color  rolled, 
Crimson,  and  amethyst,  and  gold, 
With  faintest  streaks  of  azure  sheen, 
And  curdling  rivulets  of  green. 
"  If  so  the  surface  shines,"  cried  he, 
"  What  marvel  must  the  centre  be  !  " 
He  caught  it  —  on  his  empty  hands 
A  drop  of  turbid  water  stands  ! 

With  men,  to  help  the  moments  fly, 
I  tossed  the  ball  of  talk  on  high, 
With  glancing  jest,  and  random  stings, 
Grazing  the  crests  of  thoughts  and  things, 
In  many  a  shifting  ray  of  speech 
That  shot  swift  sparkles,  each  to  each. 
I  thought,  "  Ah,  could  we  pierce  below 
To  inner  soul,  what  depths  would  show  !  " 
In  friendships  many,  loves  a  few, 
I  pierced  the  inner  depths,  and  knew 


The  Hermitage  31 

'T  was  but  the  shell  that  splendor  caught : 
Within,  one  sour  and  selfish  thought. 

I  found  a  grotto,  hidden  in  the  gorge, 
Paved  by  the  brook  in  rare  Mosaic  work 
Of  sand,  and  lucent  depths,  and  shadow- 
streaks 

Veining  the  amber  of  the  sun-dyed  wave. 
Between  two  mossy  masses  of  gray  rock 
Lay  a  clear   basin,  which,  with  sun  and 

shade 

Bewitched,  a  great  transparent  opal  made, 
Over  whose  broken  rims  the  water  ran. 
Above   each   rocky   side    leaned   waving 

trees 
Whose  lace  of  branches  wove  a  restless 

roof, 
Trailed   over   by  green  vines  that  sifted 

down 

A  dust   of   sunshine   through   the    chilly 
shade. 

Leaning  against  a  trunk  of  oak,  rock- 
wedged. 


$2  The  Hermitage 

Whose  writhen  roots  were  clenched  upon 

the  stones, 
I  was  a  Greek,  and   caught  the  sudden 

flash 
Of  a  scared  Dryad's  vanishing  robe,  and 

heard 
The   laughter,  half-suppressed,  of  hiding 

Fauns. 
Up   the    dark  stairway  of   the   tumbling 

stream 
The  sun  shot  through,  and   struck  each 

foamy  fall 

Into  a  silvery  veil  of  dazzling  fire. 
Along  its  shady  course,  the  tossing  drops 
By  some  swift  sunbeam  ever  caught,  were 

lit 
To  sparkling  stars,  that  fell,  and  flashed, 

and  fell, 

Incessantly  rekindled.     Bubble-troops 
Came  dancing  by,  to  break  just  at  my 

feet; 
Lo !    every  bubble   mirrored    the   whole 

scene  — 


The  Hermitage  $3 

The  streak  of  blue  between  the  roofing- 
boughs, 

And  on  it  my  own  face  in  miniature 
Quaintly  distorted,  as  if  some  small  elf 
Peered  up  at  me  beneath  his  glassy  dome. 


If  men  but  knew  the  mazes  of  the  brain 
And  all  its  crowded  pictures,  they  would 

need 

No  Louvre  or  Vatican  :  behind  our  brows 
Intricate  galleries  are  built,  whose  walls 
Are  rich  with  all  the  splendors  of  a  life. 
Each  crimson  leaf  of  every  autumn  walk, 
Dewdrops  of  childhood's  mornings,  every 

scene 
From  any  window  where  we  've  chanced 

to  stand, 

Forgotten  sunsets,  summer  afternoons, 
Hang  fresh  in  those  immortal  galleries. 
Few  ever  can  unlock  them,  till  great  Death 
Unrolls  our  life-long  memory  as  a  scroll. 
One  key  is  solitude,  and  silence  one, 


)4  The  Hermitage 

And  one  a  quiet  mind,  content  to  rest 
In  God's  sufficiency,  and  take  His  world, 
Not   dabbling   all   the   Master's  work  to 

death 
With  our  small  interference.     God  is  God. 

Yet  we  must  give  the  children  leave  to 

use 
Our  garden-tools,  though  they  spoil  tool 

and  plant 
In    learning.      So    the   Master   may  not 

scorn 
Our  awkwardness,  as  with  these  bungling 

hands 
We  try  to  uproot  the  ill,  and  plant  with 

good 
Life's  barren  soil :  the  child  is  learning 

use. 

Perhaps  the  angels  even  are  forbid 
To  laugh  at  us,  or  may  not  care  to  laugh, 
With  kind  eyes  pitying  our  little  hurts. 

'T  is  ludicrous  that  man  should  think  he 
roams 


The  Hermitage  35 

Freely  at  will  a  world  planned  for  his  use. 
Lo,  what  a  mite  he  is !     Snatched  hither 

and  yon, 
Tossed  round   the  sun,  and  in  its  orbit 

flashed 

Round  other  centres,  orbits  without  end  ; 
His  bit  of  brain  too  small  to  even  feel 
The  spinning  of  the  little  hailstone,  Earth. 
So  his  creeds  glibly  prate  of  choice  and 

will, 

When  his  whole  fate  is  an  invisible  speck 
Whirled  through  the  orbits  of  Eternity. 


We  think  that  we  believe 
That  human  souls  shall  live,  and  live, 
When  trees  have  rotted  into  mould, 
And  all  the  rocks  which  these  long  hills 

enfold 
Have  crumbled,  and  beneath  new  oceans 

lie. 

But  why  —  ah,  why  — 
If  puny  man  is  not  indeed  to  die, 


36  The  Hermitage 

Watch  I  with  such  disdain 

That    human   speck  creeping  along  the 

plain, 
And   turn  with  such  a  careless  scorn  of 

men 

Back  to  the  mountain's  brow  again, 
And  feel  more  pleased  that  some  small, 

fluttering  thing 
Trusts  me  and   hovers  near   on  fearless 

wing, 

Than  if  the  proudest  man  in  all  the  land 
Had  offered  me  in  friendliness  his  hand  ? 


However   small    the  present    creature 

man,  — 

Ridiculous  imitation  of  the  gods, 
Weak    plagiarism    on     some    completer 

world,  — 

Yet  we  can  boast  of  that  strong  race  to  be. 
The  savage   broke  the   attraction  which 

binds  fast 
The  fibres  of  the  oak,  and  we  to-day 


The  Hermitage  tf 

By  cunning  chemistry  can  force  apart 
The  elements  of  the  air.     That  coming 

race 
Shall  loose  the  bands  by  which  the  earth 

attracts  ; 

A  drop  of  occult  tincture,  a  spring  touched 
Shall  outwit  gravitation  ;  men  shall  float, 
Or  lift  the  hills  and  set  them  where  they 

will. 
The  savage  crossed  the  lake,  and  we  the 

sea. 
That  coming  race  shall  have  no  bounds 

or  bars, 
But,  like  the  fledgeling  eaglet,  leave  the 

nest,  — 

Our  earthly  eyrie  up  among  the  stars,  — 
And   freely   soar,  to   tread   the   desolate 

moon, 

Or  mingle  with  the  neighbor  folk  of  Mars. 
Yea,  if  the  savage  learned  by  sign  and 

sound 

To  bridge  the  chasm  to  his  fellow's  brain, 
Till  now  we  flash  our  whispers  round  the 

globe, 


$8  The  Hermitage 

That  race  shall  signal  over  the  abyss 

To   those   bright   souls  who   throng  the 

outer  courts 
Of   life,  impatient  who   shall   greet  men 

first 
And  solve  the  riddles  that  we  die  to  know. 


'T  is  night :  I  sit  alone  among  the  hills. 

There  is  no  sound,  except  the  sleepless 
brook, 

Whose  voice  comes  faintly  from  the 
depths  below 

Through  the  thick  darkness,  or  the  som 
bre  pines 

That  slumber,  murmuring  sometimes  in 
their  dreams. 

Hark!  on  a  fitful  gust  there  came  the 
sound 

Of  the  tide  rising  yonder  on  the  bay. 

It  dies  again  :  't  was  like  the  rustling 
noise 

Of  a  great  army  mustering  secretly. 


The  Hermitage  39 

There  rose  an  owl's  cry,  from  the  woods 

below, 
Like   a   lost    spirit's.  —  Now   all  's    still 

again.  — 

'T  is  almost  fearful  to  sit  here  alone 
And  feel   the   deathly   silence    and    the 

dark. 

I  will  arise  and  shout,  and  hear  at  least 
My  own   voice   answer.  —  Not   an   echo 

even! 

I  wish  I  had  not  uttered  that  wild  cry ; 
It  broke  with  such  a  shock  upon  the  air, 
Whose  leaden  silence  closed  up  after  it, 
And  seemed  to  clap  together  at  my  ears. 
The  black  depths  of  these  muffled  woods 

are  thronged 
With   shapes   that  wait   some    signal   to 

swoop  out, 
And  swirl  around   and  madden  me  with 

fear. 

I  will  go  climb  that  bare  and  rocky  height 
Into  the  clearer  air. 


4O  The  Hermitage 

So,  here  I  breathe  ; 
That  silent  darkness  smothered  me. 

Away 

Across  the  bay,  the  city  with  its  lights 
Twinkling  against  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
Looks  a  sea-dragon,   crawled   up  on  the 

shore, 
With   rings   of  fire   across   his    rounded 

back, 
And   luminous   claws   spread  out  among 

the  hills. 

Above,  the  glittering  heavens.  —  Magnifi 
cent! 

Oh,  if  a  man  could  be  but  as  a  star, 
Having  his  place  appointed,  here  to  rise, 
And  there  to  set,  unchanged  by  earthly 

change, 
Content  if  it  can  guide  some  wandering 

bark, 
Or  be  a  beacon  to  some  home-sick  soul ! 

Those  city-lights  again  :  they  draw  my 
gaze 


The  Hermitage  41 

As  if  some  secret  human  sympathy 

Still  held  my  heart  down  from  the  lonely 

heaven. 

A  new-born  constellation,  setting  there 
Below  the  Sickle's  ruby-hilted  curve, 
They  gleam Not  so  !     No  constella 
tion  they ; 
I  mock  the  sad,  strong  stars  that  never 

fail 

In  their  eternal  patience ;  from  below 
Comes    that   pale   glare,    like   the   faint, 

sulphurous  flame 

Which  plays  above  the  ashes  of  a  fire  : 
So   trembles    the   dull   flicker    of    those 

lamps 
Over  the  burnt-out  energies  of  man. 


n. 

A  month   since  I  last  laid  my  pencil 

down,  — 

An  April,  fairer  than  the  Atlantic  June, 
Whose  calendar  of  perfect  days  was  kept 


42  The  Hermitage 

By  daily  blossoming  of  some  new  flower. 
The  fields,  whose  carpets  now  were  silken 

white, 

Next  week  were  orange-velvet,  next,  sea- 
blue. 

It  was  as  if  some  central  fire  of  bloom, 
From   which   in   other   climes  a  random 

root 
Is  now  and  then  shot  up,  here  had  burst 

forth 
And   overflowed  the  fields,  and   set  the 

land 
Aflame   with   flowers.     I   watched    them 

day  by  day, 
How  at  the  dawn  they  wake,  and  open 

wide 

Their  little  petal-windows,  how  they  turn 
Their  slender  necks  to  follow  round  the 

sun, 

And  how  the  passion  they  express  all  day 
In   burning   color,  steals   forth  with   the 

dew 
All  night  in  odor. 


The  Hermitage  43 

I  have  wandered  much 
These  weeks,  but  everywhere  a  restless 

mind 
Has  dogged  me,  like  the  shadow  at  my 

heels. 
Sometimes   I  watched  the  morning  mist 

arise, 

Like  an  imprisoned  Genie  from  the  stream, 
And  wished  that  death  would  come  on  me 

like  dawn, 
Drawing  the  spirit,  that  white,  vaporous 

mist, 

Up  from  this  noisy,  fretted  stream  of  life, 
To  fall  where  God  will,  in  his  bounteous 

showers. 

Sometimes  I  walked  at  sunset  on  the  edge 
Of  the  steep  gorge,  and  saw  my  shadow 

pace 

Along  a  shadow-wall  across  the  abyss, 
And  felt  that  we,  with  all   our  phantom 

deeds, 

Are  but  far-slanted  shadows  of  some  life 
That  walks   between  our  planet  and   its 

God. 


44  The  Hermitage 

All  the  long  nights  —  those  memory- 
haunted  nights, 

When  sleepless  conscience  would  not  let 
me  sleep, 

But  stung,  and  stung,  and  pointed  to  the 
world 

Which  like  a  coward  I  had  left  behind, 

I  watched  the  heavens,  where  week  by 
week  the  moon 

Slow  swelled  its  silver  bud,  blossomed  full 
gold, 

And  slowly  faded. 


Laid  the  pencil  down  — 
Why  not  ?     Are  there  not  books  enough  ? 

Is  man 
A  sick   child   that  must  be   amused   by 

songs, 
Or  be  made  sicker  with  their  foolish  noise  ? 

Then  illness  came  :  I  should  have  ar 
gued,  once, 


The  Hermitage  45 

That  the  ill  body  gave  me  those  ill 
thoughts ; 

But  I  have  learned  that  spirit,  though  it  be 

Subtile,  and  hard  to  trace,  is  mightier 

Than  matter,  and  I  know  the  poisoned 
mind 

Poisoned  its  shell.  Three  days  of  fever- 
fire 

Burned  out  my  strength,  leaving  me 
scarcely  power 

To  reach  the  brook's  side  and  my  scanty 
food. 

What  would  I  not  have  given  to  hear  the 
voice 

Of  some  one  who  would  raise  my  throb 
bing  head 

And  shade  the  fevering  sun,  and  cool  my 
hand 

In  her  moist  palms  !  But  I  lay  there, 
alone. 

Blessed  be  sickness,  which  cuts  down  our 
pride 

And  bares  our  helplessness.  I  have  had 
new  thoughts. 


46  The  Hermitage 

I  think  the  fever  burned  away  some  lies 
Which  clogged  the   truthful   currents  of 

the  brain. 
Am   I   quite   happy  here?     Have   I   the 

right, 

As  wholly  independent,  to  scorn  men  ? 
What  do  I  owe  them  —  self?     Should  I 

be  I, 
Born   in  these   hills  ?     A  savage  rather  ! 

Food, 
The  sailor-bread?      Yes,  that  took   mill 

and  men  : 
Yet  flesh  and  fowl  are  free ;  but  powder 

and  gun  — 
What  human  lives  went  to  the  making  of 

them? 

I  am  dependent  as  the  villager 
Who   lives   by   the   white   wagon's   daily 

round. 

Yea,  better  feed  upon  the  ox,  to  which 
The  knife  is  mercy  after  slavery, 
Than  kill  the  innocent  birds,  and  trustful 

deer 


The  Hermitage  47 

Whose  big  blue  eyes  have  almost  human 

pain; 
That 's  murder ! 

I  scorned  books  :  to  those  same  books 
I  owe  the  power  to  scorn  them. 

I  despised 
Men:  from  themselves  I  drew  the  pure 

ideal 
By  which  to  measure  them. 

At  woman's  love 

I  laughed  :  but  to  that  love  I  owe 
The  hunger  for  a  more  abiding  love. 
Their  nestlings  in  our  hearts  leave  vacant 

there 
These  hollow  places,  like  a  lark's  round 

nest 
Left  empty  in  the  grass,  and  filled  with 

flowers. 

What  do  I  here  alone  ?     'T  was  not  so 

strange, 

Weary  of  discords,  that  I  chose  to  hear 
The  one,  clear,  perfect  note  of  solitude ; 


48  The  Hermitage 

But  now  it  plagues  the  ear,  that  one  shrill 

note: 
Give  me  the  chords  back,  even  though 

some  ring  false. 


Unmarried  to  the  steel,  the  flint  is  cold : 
Strike  one  to  the  other,  and  they  wake  in 
fire. 

A  solitary  fagot  will  not  burn  : 
Bring  two,  and  cheerily  the  flame  ascends. 
Alone,  man  is  a  lifeless  stone ;  or  lies 
A  charring  ember,  smouldering  into  ash. 


If  the  man  riding  yonder  looks  a  speck, 
The   town   an  ant-hill,  that  is  but  the 

trick 

Of  our  perspective :  wisdom  merely  means 
Correction  of  the  angles  at  the  eye. 
I  hold  my  hand  up,  so,  before  my  face,  — 
It  blots  ten  miles  of  country,  and  a  town. 


The  Hermitage  49 

This  little  lying  lens,  that  twists  the  rays, 
So  cheats  the  brain  that  My  house,  My 

affairs, 

My  hunger,  or  My  happiness,  My  ache, 
And  My  religion,  fill  immensity ! 
Yours  merely  dot  the  landscape  casually. 
'T  is  well  God  does  not  measure  a  man's 

worth 
By  the  image  on  his  neighbor's  retina. 


I  am  alone  :  the  birds  care  not  for  me, 
Except  to  sing  a  little  farther  off, 
With  looks  that  say,  "  What  does  this  fel 
low  here  ?  " 
The    loud    brook   babbles   only   for   the 

flowers  : 

The  mountain  and  the  forest  take  me  not 
Into  their  meditations ;  I  disturb 
Their  silence,  as  a  child  that  drags  his  toy 
Across  a  chapel's   porch.     The  viewless 

ones 
Who  flattered  me  to  claim  their  company 


50  The  Hermitage 

By  gleams  of  thought  they  tossed  to  me 

for  alms, 
About   their  grander   matters   turn,   nor 

deign 

To  notice  me,  unless  it  were  to  say  — 
As   we   put  off   a  troublesome    child  — 

"There,  go! 
Men  are  your  fellows,  go  and  mate  with 

them !  " 

If  I  could  find  one  soul  that  would  not 

lie, 
I  would  go  back,  and  we  would  arm  our 

hands, 

And  strike  at  every  ugly  weed  that  stands 
In  God's  wide  garden  of  the  world,  and 

try, 

Obedient  to  the  Gardener's  commands, 
To  set  some  smallest  flowers  before  we 
die. 

One  such  I  had  found,  — 
But  she  was  bound, 


The  Hermitage  51 

Fettered  and  led,  bid  for  and  sold, 
Chained  to  a  stone  by  a  ring  of  gold. 

In  a  stony  sense  the  stone  loved  her, 

too : 

Between  our  places  the  river  was  broad, 
Should  she  tread  on  a  broken  heart  to  go 

through  — 
Could  she  put  a  man's  life  in  mid-stream 

to  be  trod, 
To  come  over  dry-shod  ? 


Shame  !    that   a   man   with   hand   and 

brain 

Should,  like  a  love-lorn  girl,  complain, 
Rhyming  his  dainty  woes  anew, 
When  there  is  honest  work  to  do  ! 

What  work,  what  work  ?     Is  God  not 

wise 

To  rule  the  world  He  could  devise  ? 
Yet  see  thou,  though  the  realm  be  His, 


52  The  Hermitage 

He  governs  it  by  deputies. 

Enough  to  know  of  Chance  and  Luck, 

The  stroke  we  choose  to  strike  is  struck  •, 

The  deed  we  slight  will  slighted  be, 

In  spite  of  all  Necessity. 

The  Parcae's  web  of  good  and  ill 

They  weave  with  human  shuttles  still, 

And  fate  is  fate  through  man's  free  will. 


With   sullen    thoughts    that    smoulder 

hour  by  hour, 

In  vague  expectancy  of  help  or  hope 
Which  still  eludes  my  brain,  waiting  I  sit 
Like  a  blind  beggar  at  a  palace-gate, 
Who  hears  the  rustling  past  of  silks,  and 

airs 

Of  costly  odor  mock  him  blowing  by, 
And  feels  within  a  dull  and  aching  wish 
That    the    proud   wall   would    let    some 

coping  down 
To  crush  him  dead,  and  let  him  have  his 

rest. 


The  Hermitage  53 

No  help  from  men  :  they  could  not,  if 

they  would. 
And  God  ?     He  lets  His  world  be  wrung 

with  pain. 

No  help  at  all  then  ?     Let  life  be  in  vain  : 
To  get  no  help  is  surely  greatest  gain  ; 
To   taunt   the   hunger  down   is   sweetest 

food. 

O  mocker,  Memory  !  From  what  float 
ing  cloud, 

Or  from  what  witchery  of  the  haunted 
wood, 

Or  faintest  perfumes,  softly  drifting 
through 

The  lupines'  lattice-bars  of  white  and 
blue, 

Steals  back  upon  my  soul  this  weaker 
mood  ? 

My  heart  is  dreaming;  —  in  a  shadowy 
room 

I  breathe  the  vague  scent  of  a  jasmin- 
bloom 


54  The  Hermitage 

That  floats  on  waves  of  music,  softer 
played, 

Till  song  and  odor  all  the  brain  pervade  ; 

Swiftly  across  my  cheek  there  sweeps  the 
thrill 

Of  burning  lips,  —  then  all  is  hushed  and 
still ; 

And  round  the  vision  in  unearthly  awe 

Deeps  of  enchanted  starlight  seem  to 
draw, 

In  which  my  soul  sinks,  falling  noise 
lessly,  — 

As  from  a  lone  ship,  far-off,  in  the  night, 

Out  of  a  child's  hand  slips  a  pebble  white, 

Glimmering  and  fading  down  the  awful 
sea. 

That   night,  which   pushed   me  out  of 

Paradise, 
When  the  last  guest  had  taken  his  mask 

of  smiles 
And  gone,  she  wheeled  a  sofa  from  the 

light 


The  Hermitage  55 

Where  I  sat  touching  the  piano-keys, 
And  begged  me  play  her  weariness  away. 
I  played  all  sweet  and  solemn  airs  I  knew, 
And  when,  with  music  mesmerized,  she 

slept, 
I  made  the  deep  chords  tell  her  dreams 

my  love. 
Once,  when  they  grew  too  passionate,  I 

saw 
The  faint  blush  ripen  in  their  glow,  and 

chide, 
Even  in   dreams,   the    rash,   tumultuous 

thought. 
Then  when   I   made   them   say,    "  Sleep 

on,  dream  on, 
For   now  we   are  together ;    when  thou 

wak'st 

Forevermore  we  are  alone  —  alone," 
She  sighed  in  sleep,  and  waked  not :  then 

I  rose, 
And  softly  stooped  my  head,  and,  half  in 

awe, 

Half  passion-rapt,  I  kissed  her  lips  fare 
well. 


56  The  Hermitage 

Only  the   meek  -  mouthed   blossoms 

kiss  I  now, 
Or  the  cold  cheek  that  sometimes  comes 

at  night 
In  haunted  dreams,  and  brushes  past  my 


own. 


Ah,  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  me,  sweet 

song  — 
Why  hauntest  thou  and  vexest  so  my 

dreams  ? 
Have   I  not   turned  away  from   thee   so 

long  — 
So   long,  and  yet  the  starry  midnight 

seems 

Astir  with  tremulous  music,  as  of  old,  — 
Forbidden    memories    opening,  fold    on 

fold  ? 

O  ghost  of  Love,  why,  with  thy  rose-leaf 

lips, 

Dost  thou   still   mock   my   sleep   with 
kisses  warm, 


The  Hermitage  57 

Torturing  my  dreams  with  touching  finger^ 

tips, 
That  madden  me  to  clasp  thy  phantom 

form  ? 
Have  I  not  earned,  by  all  these  tears,  at 

last, 
The  right  to  rest  untroubled  by  that  Past  ? 


Unto    thy  patient    heart,   my    mother 

Earth, 

I  come,  a  weary  child. 
I  have  no  claim,  save  that  thou  gav'st  me 

birth, 
And  hast  sustained  me  with  thy  nurture 

mild. 

I  have  stood  up  alone  these  many  years  ; 
Now  let  me  come  and  lie  upon  my  face, 
And  spread  my  hands  among  the  dewy 

grass, 

Till  the  slow  wind's  mesmeric  touches  pass 
Above   my  brain,  and   all   its   throbbing 

chase ; 


5#  The  Hermitage 

Into  thy  bosom  take  these  bitter  tears, 
And   let   them  seem   unto   the   innocent 

flowers 

Only  as  dew,  or  heaven's  gentle  showers  ; 
Till,   quieted    and    hushed    against    thy 

breast, 

I  can  forget  to  weep, 
And  sink  at  last  to  sleep,  — 
Long  sleep  and  rest. 

Her  face ! 

It  must  have  been  her  face,  — 
No  other  one  was  ever  half  so  fair,  — 
No  other  head  e'er  bent  with  such  meek 

grace 
Beneath  that  weight  of  beautiful  blonde 

hair. 

In  a  carriage  on  the  street  of  the  town, 
Where  I  had  strayed  in  walking  from  the 

bay, 

Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down, 
Shielding  her  sight  from  his  latest  ray, 
She  sat,  and  scanned  with  eager  eye 


The  Hermitage  59 

The  faces  of  the  passers-by. 
Whom  was  she  looking  for  ?     Not  me  — 
Yet  what  wild  purpose  can  it  be 
That  tempted  her  to  this  wild  land  ? 
—  I  marked  that  on  her  lifted  hand 
The  diamonds  no  longer  shine 
Of  the  ring  that  meant,  not  mine  —  not 
mine  ! 

Ah  fool  —  fool  —  fool !   crawl  back  to 

thy  den, 

Like  a  wounded  beast  as  thou  art,  again ; 
Whosever  she  be,  not  thine  —  not  thine  ! 


I  sat  last  night  on  yonder  ridge  of  rocks 
To  see  the  sun  set  over  Tamelpais, 
Whose   tented  peak,  suffused  with   rosy 

mist, 

Blended  the  colors  of  the  sea  and  sky 
And  made  the  mountain  one  great  ame 
thyst 
Hanging  against  the  sunset. 


60  The  Hermitage 

In  the  west 

There  lay  two  clouds  which  parted  com 
pany, 
Floating  like  two  soft-breasted  swans,  and 

sailed 
Farther   and    farther    separate,    till    one 

stayed 

To  make  a  mantle  for  the  evening-star  ; 
The  other  wept  itself  away  in  rain. 
A  fancy  seized  me ;  —  if,  in  other  worlds, 
That  Spirit  from  afar  should  call  to  me, 
Across  some  starry  chasm  impassable, 
Weeping,  "  Oh,  hadst  thou  only  come  to 

me !  — 
I  loved   you  so !  —  I  prayed   each  night 

that  God 
Would  send  you  to  me  !     Now,  alas  !  too 

late, 
Too   late  —  farewell !  "   and    still    again, 

"  farewell !  " 

Like  the  pulsation  of  a  silenced  bell 
Whose  sobs  beat  on  within  the  brain. 


The  Hermitage  61 

I  rose, 
And  smote  my  staff  strongly  against  the 

ground, 
And  set  my  face  homeward,  and  set  my 

heart 
Firm  in  a  passionate  purpose  :  there,  in 

haste, 

With  that  one  echo  goading  me  to  speed, 
"  If  it  should  be  too  late  —  if  it  should  be 
Too  late  —  too  late ! "  I  took  a  pen  and 

wrote : 

"  Dear  Soul,  if  I  am  mad  to  speak  to 

thee, 

And  this  faint  glimmer  which  I  call  a  hope 
Be  but  the  corpse-light  on  the  grave  of 

hope  — 

If  thou,  O  darling  Star,  art  in  the  West 
To  be  my  Evening-star,  and  watch  my  day 
Fade  slowly  into  desolate  twilight,  burn 
This  folly  in  the   flames;    and   scattered 

with 
Its  ashes,  let  my  madness  be  forgot. 


62  The  Hermitage 

But  if  not  so,  oh  be  my  Morning-star, 
And  crown  my  East  with  splendor  :  come 
to  me !  " 

A  stern,  wild,  broken  place  for  a  man  to 

walk 
And   muse   on   broken  fortunes ;   a  rare 

place, — 
There  in  the  Autumn  weather,  cool  and 

still, 
With  the  warm  sunshine  clinging  round 

the  rocks 

Softly,  in  pity,  like  a  woman's  love,  — 
To   wait   for   some   one   who   can   never 

come  — 

As  a  man  there  was  waiting.     Overhead 
A  happy  bird  sang  quietly  to  himself, 
Unconscious    of    such   sombre    thoughts 

below, 
To  which  the  song  was  background  :  — 

"Yet  how  men 

Sometimes    will     struggle,    writhe,     and 
scream  at  death  ! 


The  Hermitage  63 

It  were  so  easy  now,  in  the  mild  air, 

To   close   the   senses,  slowly  sleep,   and 

die; 
To  cease  to  be  the   shaped  and  definite 

cloud, 
And    melt     away    into     the    fathomless 

blue ;  — 

Only  to  touch  this  crimson  thread  of  life, 
Whose  steady  ripple  pulses  in  my  wrist, 
And  watch  the   little   current   soak  the 

grass, 
Till  the  haze   came,  then  darkness,  and 

then  rest. 

Would  God  be  angry  if  I  stopped  one  life 
Among  His  myriads  —  such   a  worthless 

one  ? 

If  I  should  pray,  I  wonder  would  He  send 
An  angel  down  out  of  that  great,  white 

cloud, 
(He  surely  could  spare  one  from  praising 

Him,) 

To  tell  if  there  is  any  better  way 
Than  —     Look !      Why,   that  is  grand, 

now !     (Am  I  mad  ? 


64  The  Hermitage 

I   did    not    think    I    should    go    mad !) 

That  's  grand  — 

One  of  the  blessed  spirits  come  like  this 
To   meet  a  poor,  lean   man   among  the 

rocks, 
And  answer  questions  for  him  ?  " 

There  she  stood, 
With  blonde  hair  blowing  back,  as  if  the 

breeze 

Blew  a  light  out  of  it,  that  ever  played 
And    hovered    at    her   shoulders.     Such 

blue  eyes 

Mirrored     the     dreamy     mountain     dis 
tances,  — 

(Yet,  are  the  angels'  faces  thin  and  wan 
Like     that  ;    and    do     they   have     such 

mouths,  so  drawn, 

As  if  a  sad  song,  some  sad  time,  had  died 
Upon  the  lips,  and  left  its  echo  there  ?) 

And   the    man    rose,    and   stood   with 
folded  hands 


The  Hermitage  65 

And  head  bent,  and  his  downcast  looks  in 

awe 
Touching  her  garment's  hem,  that,  when 

she  spoke, 
Trembled  a  little  where  it  met  her  feet. 

"  I  am  come,  because  you  called  to  me 

to  come. 

What  were  all  other  voices  when  I  heard 
The  voice  of  my  own  soul's  soul  call  to 

me? 
You  knew  I  loved  you  —  oh,  you  must 

have  known! 

Was  it  a  noble  thing  to  do,  you  think, 
To  leave  a  lonely  girl  to  die  down  there 
In  the  great  empty  world,  and  come  up 

here 

To  make  a  martyr's  pillar  of  your  pride  ? 
There  has  been  nobler  work  done,  there 

in  the  world, 
Than  you  have  done  this  year  !  " 

Then  cried  the  man  : 


66  The  Hermitage 

"  O  voice  that  I  have  prayed  for —  O  sad 

voice, 
And  woful    eyes,   spare    me    if   I   have 

sinned ! 
There  was    a   little    ring    you    used   to 

wear  "  — 

"O  strange,  wild  Fates,  that  balance 

bliss  and  woe 

On  such  poor  straws  !     It  was  a  brother's 
gift." 

"  You  never  told  me  "  — 

"  Did  you  ever  ask  ?  " 

"You,  too,  were  surely  prouder  then 
than  now !  " 

"  Dear,  I  am   sadder  now :   the   head 

must  bend 
A  little,  when  one  's  weeping." 


The  Hermitage  67 

Then  the  man,  — 
While   half  his   mind,   bewildered,    at   a 

flash 
Took  in  the  wide,  lone  place,  the  singing 

bird, 
The  sunshine  streaming  past  them  like  a 

wind, 
And  the  broad  tree  that  moved  as  though 

it  breathed  : 

"  Oh,  if  't  is  possible  that  in  the  world 
There  lies  some  low,  mean  work  for  me 

to  do, 

Let  me  go  there  alone  :  I  am  ashamed 
To  wear  life's  crown  when  I  flung  down 

its  sword. 

Crammed  full  of  pride,  and  lust,  and  lit 
tleness, 

O  God,  I  am  not  worthy  of  thy  gifts  ! 
Let  me  find  penance,  till,  years  hence, 

perchance, 
Made  pure  by  toil,  and  scourged  with  pain 

and  prayer  "  — 


68  The  Hermitage 

Then  a  voice   answered   through   His 

creature's  lips,  — 

"  God  asks  no  penance  but  a  better  life. 
He  purifies  by  pain  —  He  only  ;  't  is 
A  remedy  too  dangerous  for  our 
Blind  pharmacy.     Lo  !  we  have  tried  that 

way, 
And  borne  what  fruit,  or  blossoms  even, 

save  one 
Poor  passion  -  flower  !     Come,   take   thy 

happiness  ; 
In   happy  hearts   are   all   the   sunbeams 

forged 
That    brighten     up    our    weatherbeaten 

world. 
Come  back  with  me  —  Come  !  for  I  love 

you  —  Come  !  " 


If  it  was  not  a  dream  :   perchance  it 

was  — 

Often  it  seems  so,  and  I  wonder  when 
I  shall  awaken  on  the  mountain-side, 


The  Hermitage  69 

With  a  little  bitter  taste  left  in  the  mouth 
Of  too  much  sleep,  or  too  much  happiness, 
And  sigh,  and  wish  that  I  might  dream 
again. 


STARLIGHT. 

!Uf|HEY  think  me  daft,  who  nightly 

meet 

My  face  turned  starward,  while 
my  feet 
Stumble  along  the  unseen  street ; 

But  should  man's  thoughts  have  only  room 
For  Earth,  his  cradle  and  his  tomb, 
Not  for  his  Temple's  grander  gloom  ? 

And  must  the  prisoner  all  his  days 
Learn  but  his  dungeon's  narrow  ways 
And  never  through  its  grating  gaze  ? 

Then  let  me  linger  in  your  sight, 

My  only  amaranths  !  blossoming  bright 

As  over  Eden's  cloudless  night. 


Starlight  71 

The   same   vast    belt,   and    square,   and 

crown, 

That  on  the  Deluge  glittered  down, 
And  lit  the  roofs  of  Bethlehem  town  ! 

Ye  make  me  one  with  all  my  race, 
A  victor  over  time  and  space, 
Till  all  the  path  of  men  I  pace. 

Far-speeding  backward  in  my  brain 
We  build  the  Pyramids  again, 
And  Babel  rises  from  the  plain  ; 

And  climbing  upward  on  your  beams 
I  peer  within  the  Patriarchs'  dreams, 
Till  the  deep  sky  with  angels  teems. 

My  Comforters  !  —  Yea,  why  not  mine  ? 
The  power  that  kindled  you  doth  shine, 
In  man,  a  mastery  divine  ; 

That  Love  which  throbs  in  every  star, 
And  quickens  all  the  worlds  afar, 
Beats  warmer  where  his  children  are. 


2  Starlight 

The  shadow  of  the  wings  of  Death 
Broods  over  us ;  we  feel  his  breath  : 
"  Resurgam  "  still  the  spirit  saith. 

These  tired  feet,  this  weary  brain, 
Blotted  with  many  a  mortal  stain, 
May  crumble  earthward  —  not  in  vain. 

With  swifter  feet  that  shall  not  tire, 
Eyes  that  shall  fail  not  at  your  fire, 
Nearer  your  splendors  I  aspire. 


A   DEAD   BIRD   IN  WINTER. 

HE  cold,  hard  sky  and   hidden 

sun, 

The  stiffened  trees  that  shiver 
so, 
With  bare  twigs  naked  every  one 

To  these  harsh  winds   that  freeze  the 
snow,  — 

It  was  a  bitter  place  to  die, 

Poor  birdie  !     Was  it  easier,  then, 

On  such  a  world  to  shut  thine  eye, 
And  sleep  away  from  life,  than  when 

The  apple-blossoms  tint  the  air, 
And,  twittering  in  the  sunny  trees, 

Thy  fellow-songsters  flit  and  pair, 

Breasting  the  warm,  caressing  breeze  ? 


J4        A  Dead  'Bird  in  Winter 

Nay,  it  were  easiest,  I  feel, 

Though    't  were   a   brighter   Earth   to 

lose, 
To  let  the  summer  shadows  steal 

About  thee,  bringing  their  repose  ; 

When  the  noon  hush  was  on  the  air, 
And   on    the    flowers    the   warm    sun 
shined, 

And  Earth  seemed  all  so  sweet  and  fair, 
That  He  who  made  it  must  be  kind. 

So  I,  too,  could  not  bear  to  go 

From  Life  in  this  unfriendly  clime, 

To  lie  beneath  the  crusted  snow, 

When  the  dead  grass  stands  stiff  with 
rime ; 

But  under  those  blue  skies  of  home, 
Far  easier  were  it  to  lie  down, 

Where  the  perpetual  violets  bloom, 

And  the  rich  moss  grows  never  brown  ; 


A  Dead  Bird  in  Winter        75 

Where  linnets  never  cease  to  build 

Their  nests,  in  boughs  that  always  wave 

To  odorous  airs,  with  blessing  rilled 
From  nestled  blossoms  round  my  grave. 


SPRING  TWILIGHT. 

INGING  in  the  rain,  robin  ? 

Rippling  out  so  fast 
All  thy  flute-like  notes,  as  if 
This  singing  were  thy  last ! 


After  sundown,  too,  robin  ? 

Though  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  trees  grow  dark  and  still, 

Dripping  from  leaf  and  limb. 

'T  is  heart-broken  music  — 
That  sweet,  faltering  strain,  — 

Like  a  mingled  memory, 
Half  ecstasy,  half  pain. 

Surely  thus  to  sing,  robin, 
Thou  must  have  in  sight 


Spring  Twilight  77 

Beautiful  skies  behind  the  shower, 
And  dawn  beyond  the  night. 

Would  thy  faith  were  mine,  robin  ! 

Then,  though  night  were  long, 
All  its  silent  hours  should  melt 

Their  sorrow  into  song. 


EVENING. 

HE  Sun  is  gone  :  those  glorious 

chariot-wheels 
Have    sunk    their    broadening 

spokes  of  flame,  and  left 
Thin  rosy  films  wimpled  across  the  West, 
Whose  last  faint  tints  melt  slowly  in  the 

blue, 

As  the  last  trembling  cadence  of  a  song 
Fades  into  silence  sweeter  than  all  sound. 

Now  the  first  stars  begin   to   tremble 

forth 

Like  the  first  instruments  of  an  orchestra 
Touched  softly,  one  by  one.  —  There  in 

the  East 
Kindles  the  glory  of  moonrise  :   how  its 

waves 


Evening  79 

Break  in  a  surf  of  silver  on  the  clouds !  — 
White,  motionless   clouds,  like   soft   and 

snowy  wings 
Which   the  great   Earth  spreads,  sailing 

round  the  Sun. 

O  silent  stars !  that  over  ages  past 
Have  shone  serenely  as  ye  shine  to-night, 
Unseal,  unseal  the  secret  that  ye  keep  ! 
Is  it  not  time  to  tell  us  why  we  live  ? 
Through  all  these   shadowy  corridors  of 

years, 
(Like  some  gray  Priest,  who  through  the 

Mysteries 

Led  the  blindfolded  Neophyte  in  fear,) 
Time    leads    us   blindly   onward,   till   in 

wrath 
Tired  Life  would  seize  and  throttle  its 

stern  guide, 
And   force  him  tell  us  whither  and  how 

long. 
But  Time  gives  back  no   answer  —  only 

points 


8o  Evening 

With  motionless  finger  to  eternity, 
Which   deepens    over   us,   as   that   deep 

sky 

Darkens  above  me  :  only  its  vestibule 
Glimmers  with  scattered  stars  ;  and  down 

the  West 

A  silent  meteor  slowly  slides  afar, 
As   though,  pacing  the  garden-walks   of 

heaven, 
Some  musing  seraph  had  let  fall  a  flower. 


EASTERN   WINTER. 

OLD  —  cold  —  the  very  sun  looks 

cold, 
With  those   thin   rays   of   chilly 

gold 

Laid  on  that  gap  of  bluish  sky 
That  glazes  like  a  dying  eye. 

The  naked  trees  are  shivering, 
Each  cramped  and  bare  branch  quivering, 
Cutting  the  bleak  wind  into  blades, 
Whose  edge  to  brain  and  bone  invades. 

That  hard  ground  seems  to  ache,  all  day, 
Even  for  a  sheet  of  snow,  to  lay 
Upon  its  icy  feet  and  knees, 
Stretched  stiffly  there  to  freeze  and  freeze. 


82  Eastern  Winter 

And  yon  shrunk  mortal  —  what 's  within 
That  nipped  and  winter-shriveled  skin  ? 
The  pinched  face  drawn  in  peevish  lines, 
The   voice    that    through   his    blue    lips 
whines,  — 

The  frost  has  got  within,  you  see,  — 
Left  but  a  selfish  me  and  me  : 
The  heart  is  chilled,  its  nerves  are  numb, 
And  love  has  long  been  frozen  dumb. 

Ah,  give  me  back  the  clime  I  know, 
Where  all  the  year  geraniums  blow, 
And  hyacinth-buds  bloom  white  for  snow ; 

Where  hearts   beat  warm  with  life's  de 
light, 

Through  radiant  winter's  sunshine  bright, 
And  summer's  starry  deeps  of  night ; 

Where  man  may  let  earth's  beauty  thaw 
The  wintry  creed  which  Calvin  saw, 
That  God  is  only  Power  and  Law ; 


Eastern  Winter  83 

And  out  of  Nature's  bible  prove, 

That  here  below  as  there  above 

Our  Maker  —  Father  —  God  —  is  Love. 


A   PRAYER. 

GOD,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but 

truth ! 

Lost  truth  —  which    thou  per 
chance 
Didst  let  man  lose,  lest  all  his  wayward 

youth 

He  waste  in  song  and  dance ; 
That  he  might  gain,  in  searching,  mightier 

powers 

For  manlier  use   in   those  foreshadowed 
hours. 

If,  blindly  groping,  he  shall  oft  mistake, 

And  follow  twinkling  motes 
Thinking  them  stars,  and  the  one  voice 
forsake 

Of  Wisdom  for  the  notes 


A  Prayer  85 

Which  mocking   Beauty  utters   here  and 

there, 
Thou  surely  wilt  forgive  him,  and  forbear  ! 

Oh  love  us,  for  we  love  thee,  Maker  — 

God! 

And  would  creep  near  thy  hand, 
And  call  thee  "  Father,  Father,"  from  the 

sod 

Where  by  our  graves  we  stand, 
And  pray  to  touch,  fearless  of  scorn  or 

blame, 
Thy  garment's    hem,   which   Truth   and 

Good  we  name. 


THE  POLAR  SEA. 

the  North,  far  away, 
Rolls  a  great  sea  for  aye, 
Silently,  awfully. 

Round  it  on  every  hand 

Ice-towers  majestic  stand, 

Guarding  this  silent  sea 

Grimly,  invincibly. 

Never  there  man  hath  been, 

Who  hath  come  back  again, 

Telling  to  ears  of  men 

What  is  this  sea  within. 

Under  the  starlight, 

Rippling  the  moonlight, 

Drinking  the  sunlight, 

Desolate,  never  heard  nor  seen, 

Beating  forever  it  hath  been. 


The  Polar  Sea  87 

From  our  life  far  away 
Roll  the  dark  waves,  for  aye, 
Of  an  Eternity, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Death's  icy  barriers  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been 
Who  could  return  again, 
Telling  to  mortal  ken 
What  is  within  the  sea 
Of  that  Eternity. 

Terrible  is  our  life  — 

In  its  whole  blood-written  history 

Only  a  feverish  strife  ; 

In  its  beginning,  a  mystery  — 

In  its  wild  ending,  an  agony. 

Terrible  is  our  death  — 

Black-hanging  cloud   over   Life's  setting 

sun, 
Darkness  of   night  when  the  daylight  is 

done. 


88  The  Polar  Sea 

In  the  shadow  of  that  cloud, 
Deep  within  that  darkness'  shroud, 
Rolls  the  ever-throbbing  sea  ; 
And  we  —  all  we  — 
Are  drifting  rapidly 
And  floating  silently 
Into  that  unknown  sea  — • 
Into  Eternity. 


THE   FUTURE. 

|HAT  may  we  take  into  the  vast 

Forever  ? 
That  marble  door 
Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 
No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 
No  garnered  lore. 

What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown 
portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling :  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains. 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here : 

No  word   came  with   our   coming,  to  re 
mind  us 


po  The  Future 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 
No  hope,  no  fear. 

Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 

Naked  we  glide  : 

No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations 
o'er  us, 

No  comrade  at  our  side, 

No  chart,  no  guide. 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black 

and  hollow, 
Our  footsteps  fare : 

The  beckoning  of  a  Father's  hand  we  fol 
low — 

His  love  alone  is  there, 
No  curse,  no  care. 


THE   NORTH   WIND. 

night,   beneath    the   flashing 

hosts  of  stars, 

The  North  poured  forth  the  pas 
sion  of  its  soul 

In  mighty  longings  for  the  tawny  South, 
Sleeping  afar  among  her  orange-blooms. 
All  night,  through  the  deep  canon's  organ- 
pipes, 

Swept  down  the  grand  orchestral  harmo 
nies 

Tumultuous,  till  the  hills'  rock  buttresses 
Trembled  in  unison. 

The  sun  has  risen, 

But  still  the  storming  sea  of  air  beats  on, 
And  o'er  the  broad  green  slopes  a  flood 
of  light 


92  The  North  Wind 

Comes    streaming   through   the    heavens 

like  a  wind, 

Till  every  leaf  and  twig  becomes  a  lyre 
And  thrills  with  vibrant  splendor. 

Down  the  bay 
The  furrowed  blue,  save  that  't  is  starred 

with  foam, 

Is  bare  and  empty  as  the  sky  of  clouds ; 
For  all  the  little  sails,  that  yesterday 
Flocked  past  the  islands,  now  have  furled 

their  wings, 
And  huddle  frightened  at  the  wharves  — 

just  as, 
A   moment   since,    a  flock   of  twittering 

birds 
Whirled   through  the   almond   trees   like 

scattered  leaves, 
And  hid  beyond  the  hedge. 

How  the  old  oaks 

Stand   stiffly  to  it,  and  wrestle  with   the 
storm  ! 


The  North  Wind  93 

While  the  tall  eucalyptus'  plumy  tops 
Tumble  and  toss  and  stream  with  quiver 
ing  light. 

Hark !  when  it  lulls  a  moment  at  the  ear, 
The  fir-trees  sing  their  sea-song  :  —  now 

again 

The  roar  is  all  about  us  like  a  flood  ; 
And  like  a  flood  the  fierce  light  shines, 

and  burns 

Away  all  distance,  till  the  far  blue  ridge, 
That  rims  the  ocean,  rises  close  at  hand, 
And  high,  Prometheus-like,  great  Tamal- 

pais 
Lifts  proudly  his  grand  front,  and  bears 

his  scar, 

Heaven's  scath  of  wrath,  defiant  like  a 
god. 

I  thank  thee,  glorious  wind  !    Thou  bring- 

est  me 
Something    that    breathes    of    mountain 

crags  and  pines, 
Yea,  more  —  from  the  unsullied,  farthest 

North, 


94  The  North  Wind 

Where  crashing  icebergs  jar  like  thunder- 
shocks, 

And  midnight  splendors  wave  and  fade 
and  flame, 

Thou  bring'st  a  keen,  fierce  joy.  So  wilt 
thou  help 

The  soul  to  rise  in  strength,  as  some  great 
wave 

Leaps  forth,  and  shouts,  and  lifts  the 
ocean-foam, 

And  rides  exultant  round  the  shining 
world. 


CALIFORNIA   WINTER. 


HIS  is  not  winter :  where  is  the 

crisp  air, 
And   snow   upon   the   roof,  and 

frozen  ponds, 
And  the  star-fire  that  tips  the  icicle  ? 

Here  blooms   the   late  rose,  pale  and 

odorless ; 
And  the  vague  fragrance  in  the   garden 

walks 

Is  but  a  doubtful  dream  of  mignonette. 
In  some   smooth   spot,  under  a  sleeping 

oak 
That  has  not  dreamed  of  such  a  thing  as 

spring, 
The   ground   has  stolen  a  kiss  from  the 

cool  sun 


96  California  Winter 

And  thrilled  a  little,  and  the  tender  grass 
Has    sprung    untimely,   for  these    great 

bright  days, 

Staring  upon  it,  will  not  let  it  live. 
The  sky  is  blue,  and  't  is  a  goodly  time, 
And  the  round,  barren  hillsides  tempt  the 

feet; 
But  't  is   not  winter  :  such   as   seems   to 

man 

What  June  is  to  the  roses,  sending  floods 
Of  life   and   color  through  the   tingling 

veins. 

It  is  a  land  without  a  fireside.     Far 
Is  the  old   home,  where,  even  this  very 

night, 
Roars  the  great  chimney  with  its  glorious 

fire, 
And  old  friends   look  into   each  other's 

eyes 
Quietly,  for  each  knows  the  other's  trust. 

Heaven   is   not  far   away  such  winter 
nights : 


California  Winter  97 

The  big  white  stars  are  sparkling  in  the 
east, 

And  glitter  in  the  gaze  of  solemn  eyes  ; 

For  many  things  have  faded  with  the  flow 
ers, 

And  many  things  their  resurrection  wait ; 

Earth  like  a  sepulchre  is  sealed  with 
frost, 

And  Morn  and  Even  beside  the  silent 
door 

Sit  watching,  and  their  soft  and  folded 
wings 

Are  white  with  feathery  snow. 

Yet  even  here 

We  are  not  quite  forgotten  by  the  Hours, 
Could  human  eyes  but  see  the  beautiful 
Save  through  the  glamour  of  a  memory. 
Soon  comes  the  strong  south  wind,  and 

shouts  aloud 
Its  jubilant   anthem.     Soon   the   singing 

rain 
Comes  from  warm  seas,  and  in  its  skyey 

tent 


p£  California  Winter 

Enwraps  the  drowsy  world.     And  when, 

some  night, 

Its  flowing  folds  invisibly  withdraw, 
Lo  !  the  new  life  in  all  created  things. 
The  azure  mountains  and  the  ocean  gates 
Against  the  lovely  sky  stand   clean  and 

clear 
As  a  new  purpose  in  the  wiser  soul. 


THE   LOVER'S    SONG. 

END  me  thy  fillet,  Love ! 

I  would  no  longer  see ; 
Cover  mine  eyelids  close  awhile, 
And  make  me  blind  like  thee. 


Then  might  I  pass  her  sunny  face, 

And  know  not  it  was  fair ; 
Then  might  I  hear  her  voice,  nor  guess 

Her  starry  eyes  were  there. 

Ah  !  banished  so  from  stars  and  sun  — 

Why  need  it  be  my  fate  ? 
If  only  she  might  dream  me  good 

And  wise,  and  be  my  mate ! 

Lend  her  thy  fillet,  Love  ! 

Let  her  no  longer  see  : 
If  there  is  hope  for  me  at  all, 

She  must  be  blind  like  thee. 


A   TROPICAL   MORNING   AT   SEA. 


KY  in  its  lucent  splendor  lifted 
Higher  than  cloud  can  be ; 
Air  with  no  breath  of  earth  to 
stain  it, 
Pure  on  the  perfect  sea. 

Crests  that  touch  and  tilt  each  other, 

Jostling  as  they  comb ; 
Delicate  crash  of  tinkling  water, 

Broken  in  pearling  foam. 

Flashings  —  or  is  it  the  pinewood's  whis 
pers, 

Babble  of  brooks  unseen, 
Laughter   of  winds  when   they  find   the 

blossoms, 
Brushing  aside  the  green  ? 


A  Tropical  Morning  at  Sea    101 

Waves  that  dip,  and  dash,  and  sparkle ; 

Foam-wreaths  slipping  by, 
Soft  as  a  snow  of  broken  roses 

Afloat  over  mirrored  sky. 

Off  to  the  East  the  steady  sun-track 

Golden  meshes  fill  — 
Webs  of  fire,  that  lace  and  tangle, 

Never  a  moment  still. 

Liquid  palms  but  clap  together, 
Fountains,  flower-like,  grow  — 

Limpid  bells  on  stems  of  silver  — 
Out  of  a  slope  of  snow. 

Sea-depths,  blue  as  the  blue  of  violets  — 

Blue  as  a  summer  sky, 
When  you  blink  at  its  arch  sprung  over 

Where  in  the  grass  you  lie. 

Dimly  an  orange  bit  of  rainbow 
Burns  where  the  low  west  clears, 

Broken  in  air,  like  a  passionate  promise 
Born  of  a  moment's  tears. 


/ O2     A  Tropical  Morning  at  Sea 

Thinned  to  amber,  rimmed  with  silver, 
Clouds  in  the  distance  dwell, 

Clouds  that  are  cool,  for  all  their  color, 
Pure  as  a  rose-lipped  shell. 

Fleets  of  wool  in  the  upper  heavens 

Gossamer  wings  unfurl ; 
Sailing  so  high  they  seem  but  sleeping 

Over  yon  bar  of  pearl. 

What  would  the  great  world  lose,  I  won 
der — 

Would  it  be  missed  or  no  — 
If  we  stayed  in  the  opal  morning, 

Floating  forever  so  ? 

Swung  to  sleep  by  the  swaying  water, 

Only  to  dream  all  day  — 
Blow,  salt  wind  from  the  north  upstarting, 

Scatter  such  dreams  away  ! 


A   FOOLISH   WISH. 

HY   need   I   seek  some   burden 
small  to  bear 

Before  I  go  ? 
Will  not  a  host  of  nobler  souls  be  here, 

Heaven's  will  to  do  ? 
Of  stronger  hands,  unfailing,  unafraid  ? 

0  silly  soul !  what  matters  my  small  aid 

Before  I  go ! 

1  tried  to  find,  that  I  might  show  to  them, 

Before  I  go, 

The  path  of  purer   lives  :   the  light  was 
dim,  — 

I  do  not  know 

If  I  had  found  some  footprints  of  the  way ; 
It  is  too  late  their  wandering  feet  to  stay, 

Before  I  go. 


104  ^  Foolish  Wish 

I  would  have  sung  the  rest  some  song  of 
cheer, 

Before  I  go ; 

But  still  the  chords  rang  false ;  some  jar 
of  fear 

Some  jangling  woe. 
And   at  the   end   I   cannot  weave   one 

chord 

To  float  into  their  hearts  my  last  warm 
word, 

Before  I  go. 

I  would  be  satisfied  if  I  might  tell, 

Before  I  go, 

That  one  warm  word,  —  how  I  have  loved 
them  well, 

Could  they  but  know  ! 
And  would   have  gained  for  them   some 

gleam  of  good ; 

Have  sought  it  long ;  still  seek,  —  if  but 
I  could ! 
Before  I  go. 


A  Foolish  Wish  705 

'Tis  a  child's  longing,  on  the  beach   at 
play: 

"  Before  I  go," 

He  begs  the  beckoning  mother,  "  Let  me 
stay 

One  shell  to  throw  !  " 
'T  is  coming  night ;  the  great  sea  climbs 

the  shore,  — 

"  Ah,  let  me  toss  one  little  pebble  more, 
Before  I  go  I" 


EVERY-DAY   LIFE. 

HE  marble-smith,  at  his  morning 

task 

Merrily  glasses  the  blue-veined 
stone, 
With  stout  hands  circling  smooth.     You 

ask, 
"  What  will  it  be,  when  it  is  done  ?  " 

"A  shaft  for  a  young  girl's  grave."     Both 

hands 
Go   back  with  a  will   to   their  sinewy 

play; 
And  he  sings  like  a  bird,  as  he  swaying 

stands, 
A  rollicking  stave  of  Love  and  May. 


BEFORE   SUNRISE   IN  WINTER. 

PURPLE  cloud  hangs  half-way 

down  ; 

Sky,  yellow  gold  below ; 
The  naked  trees,  beyond  the  town, 
Like  masts  against  it  show  — 

Bare  masts  and  spars  of  our  earth-ship, 
With  shining  snow-sails  furled  ; 

And  through  the  sea  of  space  we  slip, 
That  flows  all  round  the  world. 


SIBYLLINE   BARTERING. 


ATE,  the   gray  Sibyl,  with   kind 

eyes  above 

Closely    locked    lips,    brought 
youth  a  merry  crew 
Of  proffered  friends  ;  the  price,  self-slaying 

love. 

Proud  youth  repulsed  them.     She  and 
they  withdrew. 

Then  she  brought  half  the  troop ;  the  cost, 

the  same. 
My  man's  heart  wavered  :  should  I  take 

the  few, 
And  pay  the  whole  ?     But  while  I  went 

and  came, 

Fate  had  decided.     She  and  they  with 
drew. 


Sibylline  Bartering  709 

Once  more  she  came,  with  two.    Now  life's 

midday 
Left  fewer  hours  before  me.     Lonelier 

grew 
The  house  and  heart.     But  should  the  late 

purse  pay 

The  earlier  price  ?     And  she  and  they 
withdrew. 

At  last  I  saw  Age  his  forerunners  send. 
Then  came  the  Sibyl,  still  with  kindly 

eyes 
And  close-locked  lips,  and  offered  me  one 

friend,  — 

Thee,    my  one    darling  !      With   what 
tears  and  cries 

I  claimed  and  claim  thee  j  ready  now  to 

pay 
The  perfect  love  that   leaves   no  self  to 

slay! 


NOTICES    OF   POEMS 

PREVIOUSLY   PUBLISHED   BY 


If  Edward  Rowland  Sill  takes  rank  among  the  minor  poets 
of  the  day,  it  is  only  because  he  died  before  his  genius  had 
ripened.  The  work  that  he  did  during  his  too  brief  career 
was  of  a  quality  to  justify  the  high  hopes  entertained  by  his 
friends.  There  are  no  verses  here  which  do  not  reveal  the 
true  poetic  spirit  joined  to  a  reflective  power  of  no  common 
kind.  Sill  had,  moreover,  a  mastery  of  his  instrument  which 
makes  all  he  does  satisfactory  as  artistic  work  is  satisfying. 
There  is  nothing  raw  or  crude  about  his  verse.  Sometimes 
his  meaning  seems  unduly  compressed,  as  by  the  force  of  that 
psychic  influence  which  instinctively  seeks  expression  rather 
in  symbols  than  words.  But  there  is  always  significance,  and 
mostly  deep  significance,  in  his  ideas,  and  sometimes  a  whole 
philosophy  is  summed  in  three  or  four  stanzas.  Rhyme  could 
not  contain  this  thinker,  and  he  took  refuge  in  rhythm.  The 
influence  of  Matthew  Arnold  and  Clough  may  be  recognized 
here  and  there,  and  as  much,  or  more,  in  the  manner  than  in 
the  matter.  He  was  never  tired  of  studying  the  moods  of  na 
ture,  and  in  the  character  of  his  observation  there  was  a  cer 
tain  Greek  richness  and  sensuousness.  Beauty  of  form  and 
color  moved  him  strongly.  He  responded  to  the  gentler  man 
ifestations  of  the  natural  forces  sensitively.  His  spirit  was 
serious,  questioning,  anxious.  In  his  death  the  age  lost  a 
poet  of  rare  promise.  — New  York  Tribune. 

There  is  good  work  in  this  little  volume,  and  of  a  kind,  too, 
which  suggests  not  only  the  skill  of  the  versifier,  but  a  mind 
of  unusual  quality,  touched  to  fine  issues  of  thought,  and  re 
garding  life  with  a  clear,  lucid  observation,  free  from  decep 
tion  and  illusion.  It  is  a  clear,  rarefied  atmosphere  which  the 
poet  makes  us  breathe,  soothing  and  invigorating  His  utter 
ances  are  based  upon  a  real  foundation,  and  brave  the  test  of 
a  deep  experience  and  analysis  of  life.  He  offers  us  few  of 


bot  sarnies  oar  sense  with 
;joy  erf  hard  Doty  performed -of  Sdf 
cowraered  and  renounced. —PkilmJrlfAim  America*, 

Poems  remarkable  far  pora,sobtk^,  and  beanty.  "The 
Yens  of  MBo,"  his  most  ambitions  poem,  in  which  his 
wealth  of  •nghminti  and  delicacy  of  diction  are  at  their 

-*;-: ---    -  -       -  !•=••:    •---  •  ---:_- 

It  has  warmth,  color,  a  force  of  epithet  wholly  Greek,  and 

.  :-.s  ;'-       .-_:.  :  .  _-      V:    S  .!  ' 
;;.  :--  r  r-    ;-  •  :  ._- 


to  be  added  to  any  of  the  writers  work. 


it  is  the  pore  in  heart  who  shall  see  God,  one  fancies  him 

r--t          -"::  —.   :  "-  -  :t.  =•:;:-..    :-.irrt-i  :r:r  -.'-.- -i-   :: 

• 

-.  :     _ .  •         T     -      -.  .      . 

Most  of  the  noblest  poems  in  this  it>hme  are,  Eke  the 
"  Ve«s  of  MBo,"  wiA  which  it  opens,  too  long  tor  quoting; 

:.:  -.-t  :o: '.::.;  r.::  ::    «rrr.=  --=.i:r    -lv:-7    :  -  -  :  _z? 
MOCLTDS,  w  dr  Astet  Herald. 

_•«_ m^^ m  •      __•_-•...        .«_  _-  . ^ 

:          .     ..-.'-..        . .  -:  •    .-  "  •-: 


,--:    -  _=   s       -=-;:•  --     :-.-.  -:-:,,  --d    i:-..r.,i.  =r.-::V... 
city  in  i  IJBI  iiiiini  is  manifested  with  strikmg  force  in  every 

_,.,_       _.t     .,-_-.,;        _     /  ...         :...,.., 


HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIX  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AMD  NEW  YORK. 


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